


Lessons from the Past: Love Goes On and On

by Nievelion



Series: Different Tales, Different Lessons [7]
Category: Kung Fu Panda (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Bittersweet Ending, Crisis of Faith, F/M, Family, Forgiveness, Loss, Moving On, Romance, Tragedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-09
Updated: 2019-12-09
Packaged: 2021-02-25 21:15:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21732088
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nievelion/pseuds/Nievelion
Summary: Stepping back in time, we explore how Zhuang and Xiulan met, fell in love, and married, after which the Shen family must contend with the emotional fallout ofA Different Lesson's events and decide what the future will hold...and whether the past can offer wisdom and hope in the face of adversity and loss, or will cling to them and continue to bring them down with the suffering and desire for vengeance which came before. Major spoilers...and hilarity most definitely does not ensue.
Relationships: Zhuang (OC)/Xiulan (OC)
Series: Different Tales, Different Lessons [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1529432
Kudos: 1





	Lessons from the Past: Love Goes On and On

Pausing in the cobbled village street to take a deep breath, gather his wits, and calm his frayed nerves, Shen Zhuang sighed and rubbed at the back of his neck. There above his head, hanging from the teak eave overhanging the lintel, was the sign proclaiming the owner, name, and merchandise of the store within—an expanse of crimson silk trimmed with gold, the colors of auspiciousness and jubilation, adorned with the embroidered images of a needle and a spool of thread as well as a blooming orchid. Above that was the horizontal bar carved in the shape of a dragon, with its wooden signboard: 裁 缝 女 士 秀 兰 , " _Cáifeng_ , dressmaker— _Madam Xiùlán_ ".

He glanced at the beautiful, rich fabrics hanging in the window of the shop, quite conscious of his rather light cash string…then looked down at his shirt, torn open with numerous ragged holes until it seemed ready to unravel from his shoulders altogether. _Dad's gonna kill me, one way or the other. Might as well try and get some proper clothes out of it._

It had been a typical, if unseasonably warm, autumn day at the quarry. His foreman had directed him to work in one of the older sections, where the walls had been pitted, scarred, and riddled with cracks and creases from too much stripping and carving…an area he had privately (and presciently, it turned out) thought was therefore a bit too unstable. But the elephant, Chang, had been insistent, and Zhuang was not only too dutiful and polite to disobey, he'd known it would do no good. So, off he went.

Unfortunately, he'd only been at it for an hour or two (though he did have a cart half-full of slabs of granite and slate) when he'd gotten that tingling sixth sense which anyone who worked in a dangerous trade, or encountered life-threatening situations on a regular basis, developed. Not even bothering to look up, he'd immediately let go of the chisel he'd just driven into the cliff with his hammer and leaped backward, almost tumbling off the rocky shelf into the silvery waters at the bottom of the quarry. Just in time—as with a series of staccato shudders, a good portion of the stone towering above him had cracked and sheared away from the rest of the wall, toppling downwards with a violent roar and a huge cloud of dust, gravel, and dirt.

Of course he hadn't avoided it all, as numerous rocks had tumbled and fallen around him anyway, as well as slid down off the pile of scree to partially bury him. But he hadn't taken any direct hits to the head or chest, what had struck him had done so with hardly any force since he'd already been moving away, and what covered him had been shallow enough he could be easily dug out. It was the foreman who'd done that after reaching him first—and to Chang's credit, he'd been shaken, eyes wide with fear and concern, constantly apologizing as he helped the battered bull work his way to freedom.

Once he was out and it'd been ascertained he hadn't been fatally injured, the elephant had naturally returned to his usual gruff bluster, accusing him of causing the rock fall with his negligence. And though he'd sent Zhuang back into town to see the doctor for a clean bill of health, the foreman had also made it quite clear that his incompetence meant he wouldn't be receiving any pay for the rest of the day, or however long he might be laid up.

But after only a few moments of gritting his teeth and counting silently to himself, the bull had found he couldn’t stay mad at his boss. The fellow _had_ shown concern for him and admitted fault, and all else aside, he was a good stonemason who knew his trade well and always treated his customers fairly. A little belligerence on the job, he could handle.

But on his way into town, Zhuang had discovered the damage the rock fall had done to his shirt—his only good shirt. He'd been trying to save up his wages for a brooch he'd had his eye on in the market, to give to his mother…but now he would have to buy a new shirt, if this one could not be repaired any further. He wouldn't mind having to labor shirtless, since it would keep his clothes free of sweat, but his mother and the ladies of the village would find it unseemly…not to mention he'd be rather embarrassed to be around them in public.

His father would be grateful he hadn't been injured or killed, but he wouldn't be happy at all that something they'd scrimped and saved to buy, something they'd struggled to make last as long as possible, was now ruined because of one accident. He just had to hope this seamstress could work a miracle—or was not too expensive.

Squaring his shoulders, Zhuang sighed once more, then pushed open the door of the shop.

The interior was somewhat dim, at an off-hand guess to keep the more rare and expensive fabrics from being faded by the sunlight, but there were still large windows cut in the right places in the walls to allow warm golden rays to shine down and disperse the gloom. The homey coziness was only further augmented by how narrow and close everything was set together—bolts of cloth lining the aisles; large baskets of carded wool, spools of thread, and already sewn clothes ready for purchase; tubs of dye and boxes of needles, thimbles, and pins; displays of everything from the simplest but most properly fashioned hanfu to richly woven formal palace wear and traditional funereal clothes; and plenty of footstools, chairs, dressmakers' dummies, and counter space for the seamstress to do her work and her customers to be appropriately seated and attended to. Decorative hangings and tapestries, a set of wooden and brass wind chimes, thick curtains dividing the front of the store from its back rooms, and a sweet incense he couldn't quite identify in the air added the finishing touches.

He was still gazing around in some bemusement at the combination of rich finery and common-born, appealing simplicity when someone—the proprietress, he assumed since the place seemed too small and homegrown to have a large staff—emerged from the back through the curtain, pausing on the other side of the counter to stare at him in shock and confusion. And he stared back…in startled, awed disbelief.

She was beautiful. Not 'wife-of-the-Emperor, concubine, or _xi sang_ ' beautiful, but certainly much more than he had ever expected for a woman of her age. In fact she had aged gracefully, to the point that he didn't even realize how much older than him she was until he noticed the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and mouth, or the gray that had begun to creep into the hair which she wore long and drawn back between her horns to form a thick braid between her shoulders. Tall and stately, she wore a dress that even to his untrained eye seemed well-made and quite flattering to her figure, which was mature, shapely, and attractive all at once. Just the faintest amount of rouge, powder, and other cosmetics reddening her lips and adding a blush to her cheeks completed her look.

Zhuang had no idea how long he'd stood there gaping at her, but it must have been long enough, since the bovine woman removed her hands from where they'd been tucked deferentially into her sleeves so as to cross her arms over her chest. "Close your mouth, you'll catch flies that way."

He blinked, registered the amused and slightly sardonic look that had replaced the startlement on her face, and flushed, rubbing at the back of his neck. He did close it, too. "Uh…sorry about that. I didn't mean to—I mean, I never thought you'd be—I didn't expect—" He floundered.

"You thought all seamstresses were wrinkly, gossipy old women? Thanks, I think."

_Gah! That's not what I meant!_ Hurriedly he tried to apologize, but unfortunately he just ended up digging himself deeper. "No, no, of course that's not what I thought. Seamstresses can be any age, of course."

"But they do gossip."

"Yes. What? _No_!" Zhuang felt like burying his horns in the nearest wall. "No, seamstresses are very proper and decorous, no question of that! Honor all the ancestors, never put a toe out of line or do anything untoward…"

The seamstress raised an eyebrow. "So in other words, we're all plain, ordinary, and boring. My, aren't you the charmer."

Something about the twinkle in her eyes and the slight twitch at the corner of her mouth made him think that she was not as offended as she appeared to be. But he was too worked up and panicked to truly notice. "That wasn't what I meant either!" he exploded in frustration. "Seamstresses are young, pretty, absolutely ravishing, and any man would be lucky to marry one! Is that what you want me to say?!"

Now both eyebrows lifted. "So all we're good for is our looks, and we don't have the brains for anything more than keeping our hands busy while we gossip?" Her voice was curt and accusing.

Zhuang was still staring at her in mingled fury and shame, wondering how in Ti'en's name he'd ended up in this awful situation and whether he could somehow slip quietly away to find some hole to hide in for the rest of his life…when the seamstress began to laugh. Not mockingly or viciously, but outright, full-throated, and with genuine amusement.

He blinked and then began to laugh himself, sheepishly, as his face flushed with embarrassment. "That was…you were…"

"I am _so_ sorry," Xiulan managed to say at last, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes. "But gods, you should have seen your face…"

Slowly the bull shook his head, unable to fight back the sense of admiration he felt welling up. "It's okay. I guess I deserved that. And after the day I've had, I could use some laughs."

"Oh?" The cow frowned. "Why are you here, anyway?"

Now it was his turn to shoot her a sardonic look. "To buy something? Clothing? That you buy in a clothing store?"

She had the grace to flush, but didn't apologize either. In fact she placed one hand on her hip. "Aren't you a little young for one of my customers? Not to mention a man?"

He winced. "Okay, so maybe I normally wouldn't be here. But they say you're the best seamstress in the Valley of Peace, and I've got a job that I think is gonna need that kind of skill." Which was true, the number of times his shirt had been torn, tattered, unraveled, and damaged would make it a considerable challenge to repair. But the other, male tailors in the village who could manage it all also knew his father, and would be sure to tell him what had happened. Xiulan was the only one he could be sure would keep it a secret. Assuming he could afford her prices.

Xiulan did look mollified, even gratified, by the compliment, one hand going to her chest while the other smoothed out her skirts habitually. But the critical way she eyed his ragged garment, as if it were the most heinous thing she had ever seen, suggested she wasn't about to let him off the hook. The way she looked at him, one would think he'd damaged the shirt on purpose! "Yes, I can see that. Well then in that case I suppose I can make an exception."

Tsking softly under her breath, she fetched needle and thread from a basket on the counter. "And just how, may I ask, did you let it get in such a condition?" She said it as if had been his firstborn child, or hers.

The bull shrugged uncomfortably. "Mining rock in the quarry."

Again she quirked a brow, and replied in that dry, ironic tone. "Mining rock in the quarry. Well, that's one I've never heard before. I suppose you got into a brawl of some sort, like young men do, and you just don't want to admit it." She eyed him up and down, seeming to linger for a moment or two on the exposed musculature of his chest. "I can only assume you won. I hope it was worth it to you." Before he could protest, the cow pointed peremptorily to a stool. "Anyway, sit down, and I'll see what I can do."

Doing as he was told, Zhuang clasped his hands nervously in his lap and thought long and hard about what he could say or do to alleviate the awkwardness. Every time he opened his mouth, however, the seamstress cleared her throat, clicked her tongue, or shot him a meaningful look and he closed it again. So the two of them remained utterly still and silent, like two actors in a traveling troupe not yet ready to begin their play, save for their breathing and the delicate flicking of Xiulan's needle in and out of the battered fabric.

The sounds of birds singing in a garden somewhere outside, the burbling of a stream, and far-off voices on the wind were the only noises to disturb them, and while the bull couldn't help but admire the efficient and unhesitating way she sewed his clothes, the whole situation was still extremely uncomfortable. The only good thing about it, other than the imposed silence keeping him from making a fool of himself with small talk, was that the cow was far too dexterous and talented to prick him by accident. Being so close to a lovely woman such as she…he was far too afraid that was as much a curse as a blessing.

Only a few more minutes passed, however, before Xiulan sat back on her own stool with a sigh and a shake of her head. "No, I'm afraid this is hopeless. Your shirt is simply far too frayed, young man. It won't hold the thread, see?" She touched the seam with only a delicate brush of one finger, and instantly the thread unraveled as the cloth it was holding together shredded apart at the edges. "If I tried to sew on new patches, they'd simply fall off."

"So there's nothing you can do?" He tried to fight against the sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. No shirt meant Chang would never accept him back; no job, no more money, his father would be furious, his mother disappointed…

"I didn't say that." The cow rose, smoothed out her dress once more, and strode over to a display of thickly woven cotton fabrics—white, beige, yellow, brown. Running her hand over a bolt of cloth almost the same pale cream as his ruined shirt (or rather, what it had once been before years of sun and rain had dulled it to a washed-out gray), she plucked a piece of chalk from her dress pocket and began carefully marking lines, apparently measuring by eye. "I can't repair the shirt, so I'll simply have to replace it."

Zhuang blinked, certain he could not have heard that right. But Xiulan looked back at him expectantly over her shoulder, clearly finding nothing out of the ordinary about her statement, so it couldn't have been a joke. "What?" he asked when he'd finally found his voice. "But…you don't mean…why would you—"

"Simple," the seamstress said calmly, turning to face him once more. "You are in need; it is my job to see to customers who require my services. Consider your case a sartorial emergency." The corner of her mouth twitched, then turned up in a full smirk as she eyed him with amusement. "Don't tell me you're saying no. Or is it that you don't want, or can't believe, my generosity? I _could_ just send you on your way—"

"No, no!" he said, in answer to all of her questions and especially that last suggestion. "It's just…not what I expected. I…well, won't that take you a lot longer to do?"

"Do you have somewhere else pressing you have to be, dressed like that?" That smirk never left her face, and he realized she had him there; aside from Chang having dismissed him for the rest of the day, he did not dare go home until he had a new shirt, one way or the other, so he might as well use that time to get the full treatment.

"No, but…well, I don't think I have the money for that—"

Xiulan clicked her tongue to cut him off again, then shook her head. "We'll worry about negotiating a price when the work is done. Now, if I'm to get proper measurements, I'm going to need what's left of that shirt. Strip."

He couldn't help himself, he turned beet red. "But…can't you just measure it on me…?"

"I could," she answered coolly. "But this way is more accurate, since I can lay it out flat on the counter. Strip."

A sneaking suspicion entered his mind, inspired by the way she'd eyed him earlier. "You just want to have a shirtless man in your shop," he countered accusingly.

The cow chuckled. "Why would I want that? Trust me, I've seen it _all_ before. Now are you taking it off, or do I have to do it for you? That would look even worse, if someone walked in just now."

Grumbling resentfully under his breath, but unable to deny the truth of that, Zhuang started un-tucking the ruined shirt from his waistband.

In a few minutes the bull had removed the garment and passed it over, so that Xiulan could lay it out just as she had said. With swift, almost surgical, movements she laid out her measuring tape along each of the shirt's dimensions, made a few inked notations on a sheet of paper, and cut off a large enough portion of the beige cloth. With that, she settled down on another stool, glancing back and forth on occasion between her work and the shirt displayed before her, and the only sounds were the snipping of scissors and the faint drawing of thread through fabric as she began cutting and sewing, with neither undue haste nor dawdling.

What followed was perhaps the most uncomfortable several hours Zhuang had ever experienced, as he was forced to sit in perfect stillness—for the seamstress had forbidden him to move from his spot after the first time he'd attempted to restlessly rise from his seat—nervously intertwining his fingers, bare-chested with a woman who was not his mother. Now and then the wind rustled at the bamboo blinds, the cool air stirring inside the shop but not at all bothering his husky physique…no, that wasn't the reason he shivered and twitched occasionally.

No one entered the store, for which he was very grateful, although he was certain he spied several women—both young, comely maidens and gray-headed, wiser matrons—passing down the street outside, and he swore some of them peered inside the windows as they did so, only to titter behind their hands or smirk knowingly while speaking unheard words to their companions. News of his visit would soon reach all corners of the Valley at this rate!

It didn't take him long to exhaust the possibilities of the store—there were only so many patterns of fabrics, clothes on display, and artfully draped dummies he could stare at, the tinkling wind chimes were soothing without being particularly interesting to listen to, and he still couldn't identify the incense. So after an hour or so of silent cutting and sewing, Zhuang finally gave in and resorted to small talk.

"Uh…so, um, Madame Xiulan…you have any family?"

The cow woman's eyes rose from her work to regard him a bit suspiciously, coldly. Then they softened and she sighed. "No. No, I live alone." Apparently conversation, then, while not exactly encouraged, was also not forbidden.

Frowning a bit in puzzlement, Zhuang rubbed his hands along his bare arms and glanced across the store. "Oh…so who's that then? An ancestor? Former shop owner?"

The person in question, whose image was depicted on a silkscreen suspended along a wall of floral and geometric tapestries, didn't really look like the latter at all—a stern, proud, stiff-backed young bull dressed in the uniform of a Jade Palace guardsman, his expression one of taciturn, gruff watchfulness and a certain confidence and unwavering belief in the rightness of his job and point of view. No, not a tailor. And the small shelf set beneath the portrait had a collection of bowls for burnt offerings—in fact that was where the incense had been lit, though there were no tablets to be seen. Still, he'd had to ask.

Again Xiulan regarded him silently a few long moments, and while she was still continuing her sewing, he didn't think that was why she stayed quiet. There was a surprising pain in her dark eyes, a buried grief. "Neither. That was my husband, Dishi."

Suddenly he felt as if he'd been punched in the gut. "Oh…oh gods, ma'am, I'm sorry. I had no idea…was it recent, then?"

She shook her head curtly. "I lost him fifteen years ago."

"Fifteen?" Now that his stomach had been dislodged, it seemed to be sinking rapidly into his hooves. "You don't mean—"

"Yes. In Tai Lung's rampage." Her lips formed a sneer as they were forced to utter that name.

Zhuang stared at her in sorrow and disbelief. Though he had been too young at the time to remember that fateful day, he did remember how his father had been kept overworked for the next several weeks, repairing all the destruction in the village—enough that he'd needed his son's help, long before he normally would have become his apprentice in the trade. He also knew what he'd been told later, growing up…how the snow leopard had been acting out of revenge against those in the Valley who had mistreated him, acting to claim what he'd been wrongfully promised by Master Shifu ever since cubhood.

But he could not tell her these things—she had likely heard them before, and even if they could explain Tai Lung's actions, they could never justify them. Not for someone who'd suffered such a direct, personal loss.

"I’m sorry," he said again, lamely. "I…no one in my family lost anyone that day. But you have my deepest sympathies."

She jabbed her needle through the cloth, drew the thread taut, then glanced at him with a tight, clearly forced smile. "Thank you, that's very thoughtful of you. But the only thing I need is something I can't have. Since I can't see Tai Lung executed for his crimes, I must content myself knowing he is locked away in Chorh-Gom, and will rot there for the rest of his natural life. Or until those boulders tear his arms from his sockets, whichever comes first." There was a definite sadistic relish in her voice as she said those words, but although they made him shudder, he couldn't blame her. It soon vanished, however, as her tone became all brisk business again. "Now, if you don't mind, I'd rather talk about something more pleasant."

He considered, and one minute stretched into the next, for he was very poor at coming up with interesting and useful things to discuss. But before he could desperately begin remarking on the weather, or give up and admit he had nothing meaningful to say (and hope she wouldn't mind him silently admiring her beauty), Xiulan spoke up. "Well, at least this is a simple matter—I won't do shoddy work, and tradesman's clothes do need to be sturdy so they will last a long time, but I should still have this done in a few hours. A good thing, too, as I do have other orders to handle, you know."

Even though her words were mild, he still felt a slight rebuke in them and hastened to apologize, again. "Oh, I'm sorry, I didn't think of that. Do you have very much work to do, then?"

"Nothing too onerous," she observed gently. "The most pressing is another rush order. It seems Mr. Ping's boy ripped his shorts again, bending over, and seeing as it was his last pair he needs it sewn before the dinner rush tonight."

At once Zhuang started to laugh. When the cow woman gave him a look of aspersion for seemingly finding amusement in the misfortune of another, the bull hastily held his hands up. "It's not what you think. I'd never make fun of a guy like him, that panda's one of the sweetest and nicest people I've ever met—a bit clutzy, but he's got a good heart." He shook his head and chuckled. "He just doesn't stop growing though! Sixteen, seventeen now, I think? And that poor goose is still paying for more clothes for him." Now the seamstress was smiling ruefully too.

"I was there when it happened," he confided. "Somebody dropped a spoon, I think? Man, you'd think nobody there had anything better to do than stare and laugh at a guy cracking up—I mean…"

Luckily Xiulan only shot him a slightly aggravated look at his choice of words—the sort of raunchy, blunt humor males tended to indulge in, especially at his age, was not at all something meant for the ears of a lady like her, and he quickly gave her a sheepish smile in return. Then she furrowed her brow. "What a coincidence you were there. But then I suppose everyone who's anyone eats at Ping's these days. The noodle shop was always popular, even back when I was a little girl, but this Ping is far more successful with it than even his father was."

Zhuang blinked, then shrugged his bare shoulders. "Well yeah, I do, whenever I can. But that's not why I was there. I was making a delivery for my dad."

"Oh? Is he a farmer, or a vegetable vendor?"

"No." He puffed out his chest proudly. "He's Shen Gao."

Her needle froze in the cloth, and she looked up at him with blank astonishment. " _The_ Shen Gao? The best builder in the Valley of Peace? The one whose family built the Jade Palace for Master Oogway centuries ago?"

Normally he would have been more humble about this, but it pleased him to hear his father's skills and talents praised so highly. Besides, she owed him for leading him on like that when he'd entered the shop. "No, the famous Imperial poet. Of course, him! Our family and Ping's go way back, even before that mahjong game, and my dad sent me to put the new stones in the kitchen floor."

Xiulan was the one blinking now. "Oh no…so you really _are_ a stonemason? I am so sorry…" She shook her head. "And that's why Father always thought I'd never get married."

With that revelation (to which Zhuang only shook his horned head and chuckled softly), the atmosphere of the shop became much more relaxed and carefree, the awkwardness and uncertainty receding into the background if not disappearing altogether. Although their conversation remained small talk, it passed the time much more quickly, with Xiulan's fingers flickering along the new shirt's seams as she probed him more closely regarding his family over the next several hours.

Talk of her admiration for Shen Gao's work led him to offer his services for any future repairs to her shop. Speaking of how lonely she was without a family—while she might have relatives outside the Valley, she said, she'd been an only child and her parents had died in a smallpox epidemic five years ago, leaving her with all their wealth and the shop that had been her mother's—prompted him to tell tales of his more extensive clan. Each reference to his boisterous uncles and numerous charming cousins brought smiles and laughter to her lips…yet also tears to her eyes.

And when it turned out both of them had had run-ins with the elephant foreman Wei Chang—he'd come to her shop, demanding the finished dress for his wife Hai while she was primly reading a book on her lunch break, and accused her of womanly laziness—they bonded by coming up with as many nasty nicknames for the pachyderm as they could think of.

At last, after a swapping of favorite recipes at Ping's and a moment when he'd shared with her his shy desire to one day have little ones of his own—something which had nearly led her to take his hand and squeeze it before she'd glanced sidelong at the portrait of her husband with a stricken look, then jerked away guiltily—Xiulan drew her thread through for the last stitch, then bit and tied it off with a satisfied air. "There we are then, one workman's shirt, fit for many more seasons yet. Try it on, tell me what you think."

Zhuang stared at her, amazed in spite of himself that she possessed such professional skill as to finish in such a relatively short time, let alone while conversing so animatedly with him. But he knew she would not say the work was done unless it was, this woman's standards were clearly far too high for a falsehood and, despite how their encounter had begun, he could not see this as another prank—not when it concerned her livelihood, something she took far too seriously for that.

Taking the shirt from her outstretched hands, he slowly and carefully pulled it on. It was well-made of course, no stray threads, all of it tightly and flawlessly stitched, the lacing tight without being constrictive. What impressed him, however, was the softness and comfort of the cloth, and that it matched his dimensions perfectly; the accuracy of her measurements, both with tape and eye, was astonishing.

Running his hands down the front to smooth the material (and noting wryly that it was perhaps a little more snug than was traditional, thus showing off his musculature to greater effect), he smiled in relief. "It's amazing, ma'am. I think I can say, without exaggeration, it's the best shirt I've ever had. So, what do I owe you?"

For a few moments he thought she hadn't heard him, and he would have repeated his question if his tongue weren't tied in embarrassment—for she seemed to be raptly staring at him, at the way he filled out the cloth. Then she smiled, and as she returned to her stool to gather up and stow away her tools, wiped the counter clean of bits of cloth and thread, and discarded his old shirt in a bin (whether for burning or to be used as a rag, he didn't know), she began speaking slowly, as if thinking aloud.

"Hmm...well let's see, there's the cloth, the thread...my labor time...the sudden order without any notice, making me delay my other clients..." Slipping her chalk back in her pocket and placing the thread basket back beneath the counter, she counted on her fingers, her tone neutral and clinical, but becoming increasingly stern. He winced in anticipation of the worst...

Xiulan turned back, placed her hands on the counter, and gave him a warm, even sunny smile. She quoted the price—and his jaw dropped.

"What? But...but that's the same price I would've paid just for the patches!"

One eyebrow rose. "Are you saying you _want_ to pay more? I'll not say no, of course, but..."

"No, it's just—that's so incredibly generous of you!" He could barely form the words; the people of the Valley of Peace were, in most respects, more friendly, accepting, and caring than any others he'd heard of—everyone, from traveling merchants and their caravan guards to visiting dignitaries, bureaucrats, and soldiers, remarked on such a rarity in the empire, particularly compared to places like the elitist, scheming capital. But the fact someone would make such an offer that might impinge on their livelihood, especially in such a small and isolated settlement where every transaction might mean the difference between the ability to pay taxes and put a meal on the table, and not...

The cow seemed to read at least some of what he was thinking in his expression, for she sighed, crossed her arms beneath her breasts, and regarded him candidly, yet also with warm sympathy. "I do have to think about myself, and my future, especially with me being alone in the world. But I can afford to make exceptions, once in a while. I could also argue that giving you a break, so you will have the proper clothes to do your stonework, will only benefit everyone in the Valley in the long run. And it's also the right thing to do."

The corner of her mouth turned up again, in what he was beginning to think was her trademark expression. "Besides, it's not as if you were purchasing the finest silks for an audience with the Son of Heaven. Then, I'd have to charge you full price."

Now Zhuang had to laugh—not only at her joke, but at how she sincerely managed to balance compassion and altruism with simple common sense and ethical business practices. A poised, graceful, good-hearted woman...who was also quick on her mental feet and eminently practical. She wasn't like anyone else he'd ever met...and he liked that. "Fair enough. Well, all I can say is, thank you...and I wish there was some way I could repay you for your kindness."

"Virtue and duty are their own reward," Xiulan replied, and though her words were sincere he thought he detected a bit of wry sententiousness. "Just don't tell anyone, since I have a reputation to live up to, and we'll call it even."

Pulling out his cash string and slowly counting out the coins (even at the reduced price, it still took almost all the money he had—but it was worth it in the end, especially once he returned to work again and could receive this week's pay), the bull chuckled. "Pinch every _yuan_ , count out the _mou_ twice to be sure, and demand every debt be paid yesterday? She Who Must Not Be Crossed?"

"Something like that." Her eyes twinkled as she said it, though.

Despite the fact he was nearly broke, as he pushed the coins across the counter to her, a thought came to him. He gazed into those dark eyes, where her loneliness and pain lingered yet somehow made her beauty all the more entrancing in its tragicness, then flicking his eyes back to Dishi's portrait, he dared to reach over and place his hand on hers. "Maybe...maybe I could show you my gratitude by taking you out to dinner then? My treat, so you're not paying for a single thing. And you can haggle prices and refuse to leave a tip all you like."

For a long moment he thought he'd crossed the line, since Xiulan remained silent, expressionless, and still; whether it was the fact he was still mostly a stranger to her, their age difference, or the idea of any man at all showing an interest in her, was all equally possible. But then, slowly, she smiled at him, a smile that made her even more beautiful, made her look years younger.

"I think I'd like that. I'd like that very much." She paused. "Especially the last part."

They were both still laughing about that one when the next customer finally came in, and he had to hurry home.

* * *

A lantern hung suspended from its cord strung across the courtyard, directly over their table, adding its warm, companionable yellow glow to that of the candle in the oil lamp set before them. The wind whispered in the branches of the cherry tree overhead, newly blossomed with the pink that was a familiar mark of spring. The delicious smells of noodles, savory broth, steamed vegetables, and baking rolls wafted out of the small, stone-lined kitchen. The sounds of the numerous patrons, all chattering, gossiping, and laughing gaily, filled the shop’s environs. Everything was vibrant, gregarious yet intimate, warm with life but also cool enough to merit close seating and even snuggling. It was beautiful, inviting, and romantic.

Yet Zhuang barely noticed any of it, seeing as he was lost in the eyes of the woman across from him.

It was now six months since their fateful meeting, and one dinner date of gratitude had turned into two, three, five…until finally he'd begun blowing almost the entirety of every week's pay on restaurant outings with Xiulan. He couldn't help it…he found her fascinating, and not just because of her beauty.

Most of the girls his own age were quiet, demure maidens, prim and utterly devoted to fulfilling every ancient tradition with perfection and obeying their parents to the letter, waiting with charm and grace, while their mothers taught them of cooking, weaving, and cleaning, for their future husbands to come and bear them away so they in turn could bear sons for the empire. In other words, painfully boring, as unique and special as every porcelain doll found in the capital.

Or they were loud, bossy, argumentative sorts who made it quite clear they held themselves superior, shoving their opinions down your throat and insisting the trials they suffered through domestic labor, childbirth, and the demands of their patriarchal society meant they were just as worthy of respect and rights as any man (something he agreed with wholeheartedly, however minority that view was) and justified in speaking their mind and acting as domineering and caustic as they wished (something he did _not_ agree with).

But Xiulan was neither of these extremes. Oh, she had her opinions, and wasn't afraid to be passionate about them, but as long as you treated them with the same decency you expected for your views, and you showed a proper decorum and intellect in presenting your points, she would listen politely and grant your words merit. And she was otherwise quite courteous and respectful of traditions. But she had the wisdom, insight, and experience which came with age, which raised her above both the giggling inanity of the young girls and the arrogant presumption of their liberated counterparts.

Factor in the independence which came from being on her own and possessed of a certain wealth, and Xiulan could afford to be calm, fair-minded, yet incisive with her observations about societal mores and how those of the Valley were either better or worse than the empire at large (usually the former). And she knew so much! Being an only child, she'd not only been doted upon but provided all the education she normally would not have been, that a son would have received—not an upper-class, city education of course, but she did know poetry, history, languages, and philosophy a seamstress normally would not.

Yet even that wasn't the extent of her appeal. She had a surprising vulnerability to her, a kindness and gentleness somewhat belied by her strong, no-nonsense exterior. She was funny, clever, and willful without being too proud. Most of all, she was lonely, a rather sad figure who lived on the outskirts of life in the Valley—if it wasn't her autonomy as head of her own household which some wives found threatening, or her widow's riches which might attract their men's roving eyes, it was her strange mix of flouting some traditions even as she was bound by others, or her lack of family and the tragedy of her past making others uncertain how to approach her.

All he knew was he wanted to draw her back into town life, so she would never be isolated again. He wanted to give her everything—not finances or security since she already had those, but emotion, soul, happiness, the things money couldn't buy. He wanted her to smile more, to relax and be at peace. And today, he thought he had the way to do that. If he could bring himself to say the words that would change their lives.

"You're staring again," she said suddenly, sardonically, startling him out of his reverie. "You must have memorized my face by now, Zhuang. _Fen_ for your thoughts."

Flushing in embarrassment, the bull rubbed at the back of his neck and chuckled a bit weakly. _She’s so beautiful, so sophisticated, so poised…and I'm just a common laborer. What could she possibly see in me?_ Fighting back his own doubts and insecurities, he managed a smile. "Oh, no. A face like yours can't ever be memorized, it deserves every bit of attention and honor a man can give it." Suddenly realizing how maudlin and overwrought his words sounded, he bit his lip. "Uh, I mean—"

Xiulan laughed softly, then reached over to rest her hand on his. Only by sheer force of will did he keep from flinching away, from reacting to its gentleness and warmth. "I like that—unguarded, open, utterly without guile or deceit. And very sweet." She smirked. "I hope I'm not just a pretty face to you, though."

"Oh, you're _much_ more than that!" Even though part of him was horrified at spilling this out, still afraid she was only humoring him and leading him on before gently (or even contemptuously!) letting him down, the rest of him was heartened by her response and babbled out his feelings.

"You're the smartest woman I've ever met—well aside from Mother—" Far from being offended, she actually laughed at his qualification and nodded. "—and I admire that! You're kind, you're warm, you're so assured and confident, but also so respectful and strong…you're a model citizen, and more than that someone anyone would be proud to have as a friend and neighbor."

"I bet you say that to all the girls who sew up your clothes for you," the cow teased…but he easily spied the flush of pleasure at her cheeks.

Encouraged, he pressed onward, taking her hand and squeezing it tightly. "I've been getting to know that face, and the woman behind it, so very well. I've been watching it, watching you, for six months now—"

"Yes, I noticed. I was there too." Xiulan smiled wryly, winsomely. _Gah! I’m making **such** an idiot of myself! _He jutted his chin out doggedly and plunged onward.

"Well, the thing is…the more I see, the more I want to see. I don't just want to see you once a week over a dinner table. I…I want to always be in your life, and you in mine." There, he'd said it; not the actual words of a proposal, but the issue was plain enough, and broached for discussion.

For several long moments, stretching into a minute, then two, the seamstress regarded him silently, candidly, while the sounds of the noodle restaurant echoed and swirled around them in the encroaching night. He stared at her, his heart in his throat and ready to burst, to break into pieces. It had been too soon, she wasn't ready; she didn't see him that way and never would; she was suspicious of his motives; she thought the whole idea was ridiculous, even insulting…

When she spoke at last it was neutral, direct and unvarnished as ever, but hardly inspiring of hope. "I see. And why would you want that, pray tell? Could you, perhaps, be after my widow's fortune? Dishi did leave me a great deal of money, you know."

The matter had to be addressed, but he still couldn’t keep from gasping, his expression aghast. "What?! _No_ , of _course_ not!" He shook his head violently. "Money doesn't matter to me one bit, I like you for who you are, not for anything you've got. I didn't even really know who you were when we met, let alone how much wealth you had." He paused and then smirked. "Besides, do I really need it? I mean, when I inherit my father's money, well…"

He stumbled a bit over the words—he was not a braggart, never could be, but he also was always honest and could not deny Shen Gao was extremely well-off and would likely be even more so, the day he passed on and left his business and his money to Zhuang.

Xiulan raised an eyebrow, then smiled slightly to herself. "Fair enough. What else? What about what your family wants? Surely I am not what your father would approve of for you."

He had to admit she had a point; coming home with a fine shirt from Madame Xiulan, one purchased at two-thirds the usual price, had been one thing, something which had both saved him from any ire from Gao and prompted the older bull to personally thank the seamstress and offer her, in turn, a discount on any repairwork she might need for her shop.

But learning his son was spending inordinate amounts of time with Xiulan, let alone possibly courting her, had made him…wary at least. When Gao wasn't wondering, in a reversal of Xiulan's surmise, that the cow might be after the family fortune, he'd been quick to point out how independent, untraditional, and well-educated she was—things he did not approve of, and which he wasn't sure Zhuang could handle in a wife.

Zhuang had been quick to disabuse him of that notion, however, as well as losing his temper for the first time in many years as he laid into his father for his imperialist, misogynistic attitude. He disabused Xiulan of it now as well. "What my father wants and what I want are not the same thing. And if he wants me to carry on his work, as well as stay part of his family and give him grandchildren, then he'd better learn to respect my wishes. Just because he's my father doesn't mean he can't be wrong. I'd even risk the filial impiety of refusing to obey him, if it was that or disrespecting a woman."

He paused. "Luckily I didn't have to. Once he got over being mad at me, he was actually proud of me for standing up for myself, for believing in something and pursuing it with all my heart. He even acknowledged that, even if he couldn't accept it himself, times might be changing and he'd need to consider a different kind of woman in his family." Trying not to show how relieved he was it hadn't come to that, how terrified and upset he'd been at the prospect of his losing his family and honor, he grinned instead. "I think Mother might've had something to do with that too. And anyway, he can’t really complain about the status you'd bring to our family. Though I don't care about that, just you."

Xiulan blinked at this revelation, and he thought he saw a spark of admiration and respect growing in her eyes. But still she remained stiff-backed, outwardly unmoved, sitting in judgment. She took a sip of tea, then tapped her fingers on the table—whether in nervousness or disapproval he couldn't tell. "I see. Very commendable. But what about me? Why would you want me?" Once again her eyebrow rose. "Aren't I a little old for you? I'd think you wouldn’t want yet another woman my age in your life. Or are you that much of a mama's boy?"

He stared at her in shock for what she was suggesting, but again he realized it was a legitimate concern. He forced a laugh. "Hah! I love my mother, but not _that_ much! No, I…well let's just say I really appreciate the experience you've got, that you can give me." Both eyebrows shot up now and he hastily held his hands up. "Not _that_ kind!" _At least,_ he amended, _not **only** that kind… _

"You know so much more than I do, about everything. I could really use your guidance, your competence, your wisdom. Not because I want to use you…but because I appreciate what you can teach me, that a girl my age simply couldn't. You've got their decorum and bearing without being a downtrodden slave to the whims of men. And you're just as lovely." He smiled in what he hoped was a winning fashion. "I want my marriage to be for love…and I think I can find that on my own, without it being arranged for me. Without confining myself just to certain women."

Again, Xiulan was silent, though this time it seemed more expectant and hopeful. The minutes ticked by, and despite how he'd answered every one of her objections (and eloquently, too, he thought) he still couldn't tell what she was thinking, if she were willing to accept what he was saying or not. Finally, she sighed, crossed her hands on the table, and regarded him—a bit sadly, a bit wearily, but with a growing spark of affection.

"So…what you're saying is, no matter what your family thinks, no matter what customs and traditions you have to disregard, you want to be with me. And it isn't because of advantages you gain from it, but because you love me."

"That's right." He hoped he sounded firm and committed when he said it, instead of uncertain and worried.

"Well then," Xiulan said with surprising lightness, "there's only one thing left to say."

He girded himself for the rejection, the refusal in which she said his love wasn't real or enough; that she could not ever see herself with another man, let alone one she'd known such a short time and who was so much younger than she. That he in turn should follow tradition and marry a girl his own age. "And what's that?"

The seamstress broke into a broad smile, the happiest he'd ever seen from her. "Are you going to actually ask me to marry you, so we can tell your family and set a date?"

Zhuang stared at her, barely believing what he'd heard. He had to be dreaming this. "What? B-but…what you said, all those objections…"

"Just testing your resolve," Xiulan replied easily. "Besides, they _were_ fairly critical and needed to be dealt with at the outset, for the naysayers out there if not for ourselves."

"You mean…" He downed the rest of his tea in one gulp, feeling a bit faint as well as dry-throated. "If those things really don't matter to you, then why—I mean, are you saying you do care what people in the Valley will think…?"

"Not remotely." The cow's tone was brisk, dismissive, and even faintly, and amusedly, malicious. "Yes, I know they're questioning it, and even more will do so once the news spreads. Some of them think I just don't want to be bound by rules of chastity anymore and don't care what rules I run roughshod over, as long as I get a handsome, virile young man in my bed." He blushed so brightly and deeply he could have sworn the nearest dangling cherry blossoms shriveled and curled in on themselves. "And others wonder why I'd want to give up my freedom. But I've never lived my life based on what others think of me and my choices, and I'm not about to start now."

Again she reached and took his hand, and this time she squeezed it just as strongly as he had hers. When he dared to look in her eyes, he saw warmth, gratitude, curiosity, respect, and so much else there. Including tears. "All I care about is, I've finally found a man as good as my Dishi was. Better, in fact. I am tired of being depressed and lonely. I want a family, a real family. I want to know you and love you, more with every passing year."

He wanted to shout it from the rooftops, he was so excited, ecstatic, and proud he felt he could run all the way up the Jade Mountain without running out of breath, there to proclaim it even louder and more joyously. He was quivering as he said the words, the ones which had to be said even though it was clear what the answer would be. "So…you'll marry me, Xiulan?"

"Yes. Yes, of course I will, Zhuang."

Before he could do more than beam at her, the courtyard of the restaurant suddenly exploded with wild, raucous cheers. "Oh man, that is so _awesome_! We've never had a wedding proposal here, have we, Dad? Least, not as long as I've been here anyway."

Turning to look, Zhuang saw the noodlemaker's teenage son, the panda Po, fairly bouncing from one foot to the other, heedless of the tray of steaming bowls and plates he carried; the news of their impending nuptials seemed to have made him completely forget what he came there to deliver, or that he was a waiter at all. "This is gonna be great! We're gonna get the place all dressed up, nice an' formal for ya, you're gonna love it! You are havin' th' wedding feast here, right? No better noodle shop in the Valley than the Golden Harvest!"

Even as the bull watched, the goose in question appeared and deftly snagged the tray from the bear's paws before he could dump the crockery of won tons, tofu, and shrimp dumplings on the cobblestones with a terrible clatter. Handing it off to one of the other pig waiters, Ping spread his wings grandly, tossed confetti in the air from a hidden pocket, and then flung them up as he crowed in delight. "Yes, yes, my boy! What a _wonderful_ day!" He then began leading all of the waitstaff in a rousing rendition of "Happy Happy Wedding, From All of Us to You!"

Zhuang slowly turned and looked at Xiulan to discover, unsurprisingly, she was trying very hard not to burst out laughing. As Ping started up another verse, this time adding the Emperor’s praises to his own, and Po whirled around in the background doing what looked like poor imitations of some of Master Tigress’s signature moves, the other customers started clapping and cheering, but he could only think one thing. And as he said it, the seamstress did, too, at the same time:

"The panda's _not_ catering for us."

* * *

In the central garden of the Shen house, where Mrs. Liu of all people (the next door neighbor) had carried Xiulan to her sedan chair before it was borne by two of Zhuang's uncles and a pair of Jade Palace guards who had been friends with Dishi, the two bovines knelt within the wedding pavilion. After this, they would be left in privacy to their own devices, he would in fact bear her back to the rooms above the seamstress shop that would be their new home together, since the place had already been scoured of evil influences not only by his mother and aunts but by the very one who was officiating at the marriage ceremony. But for now, all he knew was himself and his beloved, two souls united by love and hope for the future, as they carried out the final rituals which would bond them to each other for life.

Although her family was gone, Xiulan of course had her ancestral tablets which she always dutifully tended, cleaned, and venerated; they had been brought to the altar along with Zhuang's own. Kneeling before it, his eyes never leaving hers, the bull bowed to Heaven and Earth, then to the Kitchen God whose offering had been provided (at a discount, but not free of course) by Ping. Pouring the lotus seed tea, he offered a cup first to the tablet of Xiulan's mother, then to the officiator who had also agreed to stand in for her family; the cow did the same for Shen Gao.

At last, after the incense sticks had all been lit and properly placed, the bows performed for the deceased and living alike, they drank of the tea themselves, then clasped hands...and it was done. Feet shuffled on the stones of the courtyard, a wooden staff was extended out over their linked hands to cast its benediction, and the creaky, wheezy voice of one of immense age gave its blessing.

"To say the words 'love and compassion' is easy. But to accept that love and compassion are built upon patience and perseverance is not easy. When things go joyously, meditate. When things go badly, eat a peach." A stubby-clawed, rough-skinned hand thrust out, holding one of the fuzzy orange fruit in question. Startled, since he was fairly certain that wasn't how the saying was supposed to go, Zhuang turned and looked at Oogway.

The old turtle stared back at him, large, moon-like eyes blinking slow and somnolently, that usual distracted and distant smile upon his face at whatever secrets—or meaningless, playful teasing—he kept to himself. Then, as if suddenly realizing what he had actually said and was holding, the Grand Master chuckled and withdrew his staff, shrugging and waving the peach apologetically. "Oh! And meditate."

Somewhere in the audience someone tittered. Someone else sniffled, and when he glanced that way he wasn't surprised to see his mother, smiling beatifically even as she dabbed at her leaking eyes with the trailing sash of her sleeve. Beside her, his father looked as proud, dignified, and strong as he'd ever seen him. In fact despite their initial reservations, his whole family looked so happy...every one supportive, true, and understanding, smiling at him, standing by his side...

Looking back at Xiulan, once more marveling at how she looked more beautiful and awe-inspiring than ever before in her beribboned dress and shoes of crimson, scarlet, and gold, he drew back the red veil from her Phoenix crown where it perched between her horns, running his hand along the side of her face. She mirrored the gesture as she in turn admired him in his lush, long-sleeved, collared gown of silk...then she grinned up at his cap of cypress leaves, the one which, after it had been properly and solemnly placed upon his head by his father, he'd deliberately tilted and pushed to the side, scandalizing Shen Gao enormously.

"I _do_ like it at the jaunty angle," she murmured.

"Maybe you missed it," he teased her, "but so do I." And as the audience began to applaud, he kissed his bride.

* * *

Quiet settled over their shared bedroom above the seamstress shop, the peace and silence of evening turning to night as all those who had busily helped maintain the place during Xiulan's labors and convalescence—those cooking, cleaning, minding the store, bringing and fetching medicines and warm damp towels and fresh linens, and of course the midwife and her assistant—finally left or at least turned in until the morrow.

Sitting down beside his wife on the bed, and still feeling rather shaken and twitchy from frazzled nerves, constant worry, and the distress her day-long cries had caused him, Zhuang wrapped his arm warmly and carefully around her shoulders, pulling her close...determined that no matter what happened, he would not be separated from her again, would be there to help her whatever threatened.

"I'm not a china vase, Zhuang," she said quietly, but with her characteristic bluntness.

Flinching a bit, the bull ran his fingers up and down her shoulder and side, leaning back against the strong, sturdy hickory frame of the bed he had built for her himself, in the days before their wedding a year ago. He managed a smile in the shadows. "I'd _never_ think that, love."

"Good. See that you don't." Nevertheless she sighed contentedly as she leaned in against his muscular chest, gazing down at what she held securely and with instinctive ease in her arms.

He followed her gaze. The tiny face pointed up at him, relaxed and at peace in sleep, was delicate and adorable, one with a sweetness, gentleness, and innocence he could never have believed possible, certainly nothing like her mother—at least on the surface. The tuft of hair emerging from under the blanket, between the tiny nubs that were her vestigial horns, was the same color as his, and while her fur had a hue between that of her parents, he privately thought she was closer to his than Xiulan's.

As if his thought had prompted it, the wan but radiant woman who had become the center of his world—but whom he now knew would be sharing that with the new girl in his life, the one who already had him wrapped around her little finger even as she literally gripped his own—looked up at him. "She has your lungs. Chang said as soon as he heard her cry he knew who her father was, since he could hear it clear across the Valley."

Zhuang snorted good-naturedly. "Well, she has your stubbornness, I can already tell—all that caterwauling was because she wouldn't quit 'til she got the milk she wanted."

The cow didn't gainsay him that, only smirking knowingly. "She's also got your eyes."

"And your smile."

"And your chin."

He sighed softly, contentedly. "She's absolutely perfect. I know you've always wanted kids...and though I'm young, so have I."

"She is...thank you, darling. I can't ever thank you for everything you've given me. Our lives together, yourself, your love..." Xiulan rested her head on his shoulder, then smiled confidently. "And now everything is right, there is nothing more I need. I even know what to name her."

His wife told him, and he smiled in reply, even as a lump formed in his throat. It said so much, meant so much, and he understood it in ways no one else, not even his mother or the seamstress's village friends, ever could. Nodding slowly, he turned down the blanket to run his finger along their baby's cheek, bit his lip as she lifted her face to nuzzle into it in her sleep.

"You're absolutely right, we could name her nothing else. Yes, _băo băo_. Yi is a good name. A good name..."

* * *

Dreaming as she often did of the past, of her own fondest memories, of times not so long ago which yet seemed a lifetime away, of happiness and humor and love, Xiulan mumbled and moaned in her sleep. "A good name, Zhuang...we chose a good name...but you should check on Yi, make sure she's not crying...I heard her..."

But as she rolled over in bed, fumbling for her husband's arm to shake him awake, she found nothing there—came down on empty space and a cold, silent depression in the mattress. Instantly she was awake, twisting the rest of the way to stare at the bed beside her...her arm sprawled out across the shape that had not vanished even after two and a half months. The place that was missing its proper occupant, just as her heart was missing its other half, what had left behind a deep, frigid, gaping hole.

Xiulan's bloodshot, itchy eyes stared almost sightlessly at that accusing space, like a dug-up grave, and then began to sob as the tears ran once more.

It wasn't fair. It made her doubt the existence of the gods, or of their beneficence, made her want to turn on them for seemingly doing the same to her. It didn't matter that, under Taoist beliefs, all of life was balance, good against evil, suffering and loss against happiness and success—because it seemed she had had far more of her share of one than the other. How little peace, hope, and pleasure had she experienced, versus grief, agony, and despair? Her parents, taken from her...her first husband...and now Zhuang. She had nothing left, nothing to keep her in this world save Yi. How dare the gods decree this, or even allow this...how _dare_ they?!

Somehow the passage of time did not matter to her. It was of no moment that there had been such peace, reunion, and goodwill in the Valley since the defeat of Heian Chao, that the ones who had robbed her of her husband, her love, and her joy had been punished and kept from ever harming another again. It mattered not that, slowly but surely, she had begun becoming part of village life again—that her neighbors and friends had reached out to her and brought her many consolatory gifts; that reaching out to Chang and Hai in their shared tragedy had instilled new bonds which comforted and warmed all their hearts; that the Furious Five, particularly Crane and Viper, had visited her frequently to ensure all was well with her and her daughter, with even Shifu taking time out of his busy schedule to share a pot of tea and offer his sympathies; and that Tai Lung had been true to his word, avoiding her and Yi until the cow was ready to handle him in her life.

For every time she thought she had moved on, her dreams would return...she would be reminded of what she had lost by the memories which filled her seamstress shop, an old pair of trousers which still smelled like Zhuang or a discarded hammer with a handle worn to fit the shape of his fingers...she would think she heard his laugh, his voice, and turn about wildly only to find it was some other bull in the Valley, or no one at all but the wind...or worst of all, Yi would awake crying in the night, begging for her Baba to come and save her from the shadows, and she would have to hold her, comfort her, reassure her that all would be well and she was safe, even though Xiulan wasn't at all certain that was true...

Wiping away the hot, salty tears that made her eyes burn, she rose from the bed—absolutely refusing to look at its aching blankness—and fetched her robe; she knew she would be getting no more sleep this night, that even if she did it would only be marked by more dreams, more pain, something she could not face. Especially not when her bitterness, anger, and resentment were flaring anew. Wrapping the cloth tighter about her frame, she crossed the room to the window and gazed out...with sorrow and yearning, but also with growing fury.

The bedroom faced out across the village, toward the Jade Mountain. But she was not staring at the long, endless flight of steps, the tournament arena with its guardian dragons gleaming like candle flames in the night, or even the palace itself high atop the peak. No, she had fixed her gaze on the jutting promontory alongside the mountain, where the withered boughs of the Peach Tree of Heavenly Wisdom stretched to the star-filled sky. Where her husband's body had been buried beneath it, and with it her heart. Where the great master Oogway had been wont to practice his tai chi, deliver his seeds of wisdom, offer training in the mystical and philosophical aspects of kung fu—had passed on to the next world. She gritted her teeth.

_You took him from me. You knew. You knew Tai Lung had darkness in him, yet you let Shifu train him anyway, even when he was misdirecting him toward the Dragon Scroll. You knew Chao was imprisoned in the Valley, would one day escape and ravage the empire, and you did nothing to warn anyone, to stop him._

Seething rage began to build in her heart once more—a familiar companion, one she'd first walked the road of life alongside when Dishi had died, one who had returned to her as if after a long journey apart without a single misstep or a sign it had ever left when Zhuang had been murdered. One she had known, and felt, and allowed to consume her when Heian Chao's dark _chi_ had possessed and manipulated her, given her the final nudge over the edge from words and thoughts into deeds, from righteous indignation into madness, from disapproval, scorn, and contempt into outright wickedness and destruction. And as it did so, she felt herself falling so easily into other familiar pathways, old habits...her usual scapegoat.

"Tai Lung," she said aloud, whispered harshly into the darkness. "This is all _his_ fault. Chao and the sisters were after him. If they hadn't been...if you hadn't been so damned noble, so determined to prove he had good in him and help him change and be accepted...then you wouldn't have died. If you hadn't been trying to convince me...if he hadn't been here in the Valley, at the Palace...if he hadn't had all that darkness and _chi_ those villains wanted..."

"No." The word was even softer than hers, a susurration in the silence as if the wind had entered the chamber to whirl about around her, surrounding her...marking her possessions, her memories, her soul. "No, that's not true, and you know it."

Slowly she tore her gaze away from the lonely hilltop, turned around and peered guardedly into the room behind her. And there he was, as she had known he would be—a shimmering, translucent form, one that yet was quite easy to see due to the heart-stoppingly beautiful golden light which radiated from it, composed it...the burnished figure of Shen Zhuang. How and why he was there—a sending of the gods to guide her path, a bequest of Oogway's to ease her pain, a spirit drawn by her own dreams—she didn't know. But somehow she had known he would come.

It took all of her willpower not to rush to his side, to attempt to embrace him and bury her face in his powerful chest, even though she knew she would simply fall through his diaphanous shade and land ignominiously on the floor like a puppet with its strings cut. Instead, she merely stared at him...a confusing welter of emotions filling her as her enduring, unquenchable love for her husband vied with the hate and malice she felt for Tai Lung, Oogway, and all those who had taken him from her, as her grief and despair fought with her fury and confusion and denial.

Clenching her fists, she finally managed to speak again. "How is it not true...tell me, Zhuang, how can you say that that man isn't responsible for what happened to you? He may not have held the knife, as I was fooled into believing, but he was the one who drew the sisters to the Valley, whom Chao had his sights fixed on for so long. And you put yourself in their path when you tried to defend and save him, when you simply became part of his life!" It felt good, as it always had, to place the blame on the snow leopard. At the same time, part of her couldn't help but be horrified at that sensation and how welcome it was.

The shade stared at her, and despite the emptiness in his goldenrod eyes she could both see and sense the disapproval in them...as well as sympathy, understanding, and sorrow. "I know. I know how hard it is for you to let this go. It always was. But you're wrong, love. I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. And if Tai Lung had died, or not been here in the Valley, then what? The sisters might've never come here, but Chao still would've been hidden under the palace, crouching there like a spider ready to loose its venom on China, on the world. He still would've been freed when Po defeated Tai. He would've gone after Tai, wherever he was.

"And even without him, Chao wouldn't have left the Valley alone—not with Shifu and the Five here, and all those kung fu artifacts up at the temple. He would've possessed, corrupted, and manipulated every kung fu warrior, renegade, bandit, Hun, and warlord out there, making them lead their armies and followers here. Whether or not I would've died in one of those assaults, everyone else in the Valley likely would've. You too. And if Tai were dead, or somewhere else...there would've been no one to stop Chao."

She knew he was right; she'd known it when Shifu and later the Dragon Warrior had explained it to her (the former listing everyone from Fenghuang to Tong Fo to Lord Shen who might have willingly joined Chao or else fallen under the sway of his dark _chi_ , the latter rattling off almost every kung fu artifact in the palace, including _all_ of the mystical headgear in the Room of Helmets). But she didn't want to admit it, and she certainly didn't have to like it.

"You act as if Master Shifu and the Five are utterly helpless, that every threat out there can simply walk all over them, even though _they_ are the ones Oogway set to protect the Valley and keep it peaceful. And what about the Dragon Warrior? Are you saying even he could not have handled Chao alone?"

Zhuang shrugged philosophically. "Can't say. Not really sure. Maybe he could've, with enough training and time. If Chao had given it to him. If Po hadn't had a dark past that bird could use to worm his way in and eventually corrupt him, too. But the thing is, Master Oogway believed in Tai, he knew he was the one who could defeat Chao. So I think things had to happen the way they did, to let Tai be in the right place and time to destroy him. To give him and everyone else the motivation and the heart for it. If that was the only way to save Tai, to save us all, to protect you and Yi and everyone else, I'd do it again in a heartbeat, give my life to make it all possible."

There was absolutely nothing she could say to that; not only was it all undeniably true, she would never gainsay the heroic nature of her husband's dying last act, or refuse him the chance to show how truly noble and brave he'd been. So instead, even as she wondered how he knew all this—had Oogway filled him in once he reached the other side? Or the gods? Did dying just make you omniscient?—she swung to a different tack.

"What about Xiu? You can't possibly excuse anything she did. If I could, if I had her in front of me right now instead of her having to face the Emperor's justice, I'd kill her myself, with my bare hands! She joined Chao willingly, knowing what he was...she let him use her, inhabit her...and she was the one who actually stabbed you. She has to pay...she _should_ pay!" Her whole body trembled with the force of her hatred.

Sadly, Zhuang drifted toward her, and despite who and what he was she almost backed away in a cringe of fear, for it seemed he might be trying to restrain her, or at least keep her from rushing off right this moment for her revenge, since she would not run through him for anything. "Maybe. But vengeance is wrong, you know it is. Remember what Oogway said...and look at what it did to Tai, and Vachir." He shook his head slowly, sighing, the golden light of his heroic spirit growing brighter to banish more of the shadows in the room. "Besides, it was her mother’s twisted training that made her that way, and both of 'em are being punished far more than they could ever be, short of the Lords of Death having a hand."

Xiulan shook her head, too; did step back, this time, as she lifted a hand to her forehead. "How...I don't understand it. How can you be so forgiving?" He always had been, from the time Oogway had spoken to him and helped him understand that Tai Lung had not been evil once, and someday might not be again. Even taking into account he hadn't lost anyone in the rampage, Zhuang had such a good and honorable soul...it at times made her wonder, as she had years ago, what he'd seen in her. Because her question could so easily be turned around: _"Why can I not be forgiving?"_

"It's not something I can explain. It's just who I am." He extended one ghostly hand until it was only inches away from brushing her cheek; paused before sinking into her solid flesh, but she could still feel something, a strange power, a radiance that was more than the nimbus of light surrounding him. "And it's who you have to be, too. This isn't about placing blame, or pointing fingers. If you really want to go that route, you can blame Chao himself for helping to corrupt Tai, you can blame the Huns for killing Tai's father so that he was brought here to the Valley as a cub, you can blame Shifu and Oogway for how he was raised.

"But it doesn't matter; the past is over and done with. If you want to be happy, love, if you want our daughter to have a good life, then you need to let this go and look to the future. I know you resent Tai for being forgiven, for having a wife, friends, a family, the praise of the palace and the Emperor. But keep in mind Yin and Yang; this is simply balance for all the pain, death, and suffering that happened before...what he caused, and what happened to him. The same goes for you—you lost Dishi, you lost me. But you still have Yi...you have friends in the Valley...and you have years of peace, prosperity, and success ahead of you. As long as you don't reject it, or sabotage it, by clinging to your hate and anger."

The cow stared at him, the truth of his words sinking in no matter how she tried to deny them, and with them her heart sank as well. Turning away, she gripped the windowsill and gazed out at the peach tree on its hilltop once more, where the moonlight shining from high above danced and gleamed on stone and bark alike. "It's not fair."

Of course there was no sound behind her, whether of creaking floorboards or otherwise, but she knew he'd drifted near by how close his voice sounded. "No, it isn't. Not what happened to Tai Lung, to the people Chao killed, to me and our family. But life isn't about fairness. It's about what we do with it, how we react to it...whether we believe there'll be good to balance the bad, happiness worth waiting and fighting for."

Again she felt the warmth of his presence as it came so close to touching her. "'You will not be punished for your anger; you will be punished by your anger.' It may not happen tomorrow, or any time soon. But one day, you've got to forgive Tai. If you don't, it'll destroy you, too. You have to live, and be there for Yi. Maybe even love again." His voice was now a pleading whisper. "Please. For me."

For a very long time she stayed silent as she fought within herself—fought as much against his words of reconciliation and peace as against the desire for revenge and hatred which still plagued her. At last, in a very small voice, she managed to answer him. "I...I don't know how I can. But...I will try. For you."

It felt so wonderful, even this small, promised concession—like a light from Ti'en dispelling the shadows in her heart. Those dark feelings had been her companions for so long...but she could still abandon them, and far from feeling alone and vulnerable without them, she found she could contemplate her road ahead with pride and strength, could walk it straight and tall.

Xiu had been punished, as had Chun. Chao was dead, surely suffering more than any soul had in a hundred dynasties. But even if they were not...it did not matter. What mattered was the hope she could bring poor Chang and Hai...what Oogway had said during his blessing of their wedding, that friendship or at least compassion for Tai Lung could be built upon patience and perseverance...and why she had named Yi as she had.

Her daughter was still her gift and joy, the one Zhuang had given her. Would she deny Yi her love, support, and guidance because she no longer had the will to live, or had given over her life to nothing but vengeance against ones who could no longer be made to pay? Would she turn Yi herself to that same dark path, and ruin any chance she had for happiness and peace, free of the shroud Chao had cast over the empire and the Valley? When Yi had been able from the beginning to instead see goodness and nobility in Tai Lung, and still did?

Chao had shown her the darkness in her own soul, the malice, cruelty, and twisted sadism which came from embracing hate and revenge instead of love and forgiveness, all of which had struck an innocent man in the name of supposed justice. Did she truly want to ignore that lesson, to deprive Tai Lung of the chance to escape the darkness...to condemn herself to it as well?

How far was she willing to go in the name of her vendetta? No farther, and not when Yi's future was on the line. She had been willing to die to protect her from Tai Lung; could she do no less, emotionally, in order to protect her from the same fate as Chao?

As if he could read her thoughts, and strongly approved of them, Xiulan at last felt more than a mere brush of mist and wind—felt the tingling heat and, paradoxically, the ghostly chill of the grave as Zhuang's arms encircled her, surrounded her, held her from behind without truly touching her. His muzzle hovered near her cheek, her ear, and as if the breeze itself had spoken to her, he murmured, "Thank you. Thank you so much. That's all I ask. It's all anyone can do..."

She felt the tears beginning again, but although they were still prompted by grief and loss, at the same time they were cleansing ones. Instinctively she leaned back a little into his embrace. "I'll always love you, Zhuang."

"And I’ll always love my _băo băo_." A phantom kiss brushed her fur, and then she felt him dissipating, fading away, even as his final words lingered. "Be well."

Xiulan crossed her arms over her chest, hugging herself tightly—as much to retain the heat of his last touch as to ward away the cold of the night—and gazed once more at the distant cliff. If she squinted just right, she imagined she could see the same golden light as a patch of color beneath the tree's boughs, as well as another of palest pink. Or perhaps it wasn't imagination at all.

But she couldn't really see that, or anything else right now. Not through the brimming tears that ran unchecked down her cheeks. She was not alone with Yi after all. Not anymore.

**Author's Note:**

> This vignette holds a number of references to the TV series. I especially enjoyed, though, giving Temutai's comment about the Peace Festival hat to Xiulan, regarding Zhuang. But aside from that, not a lot of shout-outs this time around. I will say that since from the beginning I imagined Michelle Pfeiffer as the voice of Xiulan, I had a lot of fun here giving her traits of (and one line about) Tzipporah in DreamWorks' _Prince of Egypt_. Both Oogway's benediction at the wedding and Zhuang's line about being harmed by anger are from Buddha, of course. And the name Po gives to the noodle shop is one that was pointed out in _The Art of Kung Fu Panda_ as being the translation of the hanzi on its sign but which otherwise has never been mentioned anywhere in the franchise, Golden Harvest—which is in turn a reference to a film studio which produced some of the classic kung fu movies of the 1970s. Lastly, the manner of Zhuang and Xiulan's farewell owes a bit to both Tidus and Yuna in _Final Fantasy X_ and Cloud and Aerith in _Advent Children_.
> 
> Otherwise, this is just a character piece that expands on the story of their first meeting I had Zhuang contemplate in Chapter 30, as well as developing their relationship more, putting a few things in perspective as far as the timeline, and explaining how Xiulan was able to move on and accept Tai Lung after all that happened. I also hope I helped explain a bit more how and why events fell out as they did, and make it seem less callous and dismissive the way I had said "everything turned out all right in the end"—that basically while what happened to Chao's victims, Vachir, and especially Zhuang was terrible, it kind of had to happen in order to defeat him, and that if it hadn't, things probably would have been even worse. Sometimes sacrifices do have to be made...and when those involved are ready and willing to make them for everyone else's sake, who are we to begrudge them?
> 
> Text copyrighted 2015. Originally posted on Fanfic Dot Net. Enjoy!


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